


Finding You

by CaptainLevi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Castiel-centric (Supernatural), Destiel - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV First Person, Possessive Behavior, Professor Dean Winchester, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Smut, TA Cas, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26356900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLevi/pseuds/CaptainLevi
Summary: Cas starts a new semester as a TA to professor Dean Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up: This is not really a healthy romance. This story is about an obsession, which I realize isn't everyone's cup of tea, so proceed at your own risk. It will probably have a happy ending, but I'm here to warn you that Castiel's behavior isn't healthy or something I would encourage in real life.
> 
> This is heavily inspired by CMBYN, and by inspired I mean I STOLE huge chunks of the book and shamelessly copied them to my fic.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this.

“Oh, yeah.” The words, the voice, the attitude. That was all he said when I told him I was his new TA upon an inquisitive look he shot me when I knocked on the open door. Then he turned back to the papers he was examining on his desk. I was stunned. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I’d never met anyone so careless.. so brash and almost dismissive from the go. He sounded harsh and curt, his words spoken with the veiled indifference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again.

It is the first thing I remember about him, I can hear how his words sounded in my head. “Oh, yeah.” 

I watched him stare at his papers intently. Perhaps he had forgotten I was there. I still watched. blue shirt ironed with care, sleeves rolled up neatly to reveal strong forearms. Then, he was speaking to me again, without lifting his eyes from whatever was on those papers. 

"The folder on the small table by the window is yours. You'll find my class schedule and the syllabus for each one, plus my office hours and some other stuff." He said the last word with a swish of his hand as if he couldn't possibly be bothered to explain the 'other stuff.' 

I moved toward the window. His office was one of the nicer ones on campus, spacious with a large mahogany desk and two chairs for visitors, and on the other side of the room there was a small but comfortable looking couch and a coffee table. I glanced to my right and saw another door. He even had his own en-suite. I was thinking why a professor as young as Dr. Winchester would warrant such perks when I realized he was staring at me from behind his desk.

"Aren't you a little young?" He asked as he leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his head. the muscles of his forearms stretched a little and his face caught more light from the window that was behind me now. He had light freckles.  
"I'm an undergraduate, but I have a good record, and this isn't my first time, I was Dr. Talbot's TA last semester." I answered. In truth, I was being modest, I had skipped a few years at school, and I was breezing through college with straight A's. 

They usually didn't hire undergraduates as TA's but I was an exception. Not just thanks to my record, but also the fact that several professors favored me because I was so diligent. I needed the extra cash, and it also paid for my living arrangement on campus. Much more convenient than a shitty job off campus. It was a win-win situation for all parties.  
"Oh." He said again, his mouth twisting infinitesimally in distaste. Maybe at Dr. Talbot's mention? Maybe at me being young? I knew I looked young, I had turned eighteen just a month earlier, even though I was already in my third year at college.  
I turned back to the folder on the small table. 

The first page was Dr. Winchester's contact information. His phone numbers, both office and cell phone, his email, and his username and password on the university's website, where students could get their assignment details. I was to help with that as well. The rest of the pages were the usual. None of this was new to me.  
I looked at him again. He had completely lost interest in my existance and was currently sipping from a coffee mug on his desk that said 'fuck off'.

It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the freckles, the shoulders, the back of his head where his hair was shortest, but I didn't know, I didn't see it.

I slipped the file into my messenger bag and pulled out a printed paper with my own contact information. I had also prepared a copy of my undergraduate transcripts and letters of recommendation, but something told me he wouldn't even look at them.  
I walked over and slid the paper on his desk slowly.  
"My contact information." I said.  
"Oh." He repeated.  
"I'll print out some copies of the syllabus for the first class on Monday. Please contact me if you need anything. I'll see you soon then."  
"Later." He replied briskly.  
You watch, I thought, this is how he’ll say goodbye when the time comes. With a gruff, slapdash 'Later' Meanwhile, I’d have to put up with him for 15 long weeks.  
I was thoroughly intimidated. The unapproachable sort. I could grow to like him, though. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.

This, the very person whose photo on the university website weeks earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities. I'd clicked on his profile. Dr. Dean Winchester, PhD. Department of Mechanical and Industrial Engineering. I looked at it, stared even, and submitted my application. I could have chosen someone else, someone whose classes intrigued me more. I didn't.

On Monday, I arrived. Earlier than him, and sat crossed-legged at his office door with my phone in my hand. His first class was at 11 and it was still 8, but I wanted to be there if he needed to check on my preparations. I was too focused on the e-book on my phone to notice the pair of sturdy, but chic tan boots in front of me until I heard a small amused huff. I lifted my head to find him towering over me, smiling. When he smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled like a leaf held to flame. He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyes. There was a glamour to him, even just standing there, holding his coffee and shooting me an impatient but amused smile.  
"Is this what you do to pass the time while waiting? read a textbook?" He asked.

I quickly turned off my phone screen on which I had been browsing a book on thermodynamics, as if I could pretend I was doing something else, something fun, something that he would like, would stop and impress him, and make him, just for once, shoot me with a look that didn't see right through me or past me. I didn't want to be the nerdy boy who was breezing through one of the most difficult branches of science just because I didn't have anything else to do. 

"No. Just preparing for an assignment." I said hurriedly as I got up and followed him into the room. He was placing his coffee and messenger bag on the desk when my eyes fell on the bookcase next to him. Then, I remembered that he was a professor of mechanical engineering, that he graduated top of his class, and celebrated his 30th birthday with a PhD and multiple publications in the most prestigious journals out there. He was just a nerd as I was.

I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and let him know that my real interests lay right alongside his. What unsettled me, though, was not the fancy footwork needed to redeem myself. It was the unwelcome misgivings with which it finally dawned on me that I had all along, without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying—and failing—to win him over.

"You always an early riser?" He asked  
"More like a never sleeper."  
"That explains." He smiled.

What did it explain? my good grades? the bags under my eyes? I didn't know, but I was happy he was speaking, and smiling.

"Would you like me to go over today's plan professor?" I asked  
"Please call me Dean," He said kindly, "Professor makes me feel like a Marvel character, which is cool not gonna lie. Professor X-cool, not Professor Zola-kind of cool." He fell silent suddenly, like he caught himself rambling. I didn't know if I was allowed to smile. I wanted to.  
"Talk to me." He said.

I took one of the chairs in front of his desk while he stood by the window sipping his coffee distractedly. I started telling him what I had prepared for class as he drank from his takeaway cup.

Before I knew it, two weeks of this had passed. We talked. I attended my classes and his classes. He gave me the extra key to his office because I arrived earlier than him on most days, and because I took on his office hours quite often. Slowly, but surely, he grew to rely on me with grading and even writing test assignments sometimes. I found myself becoming hopeful. Now that he was starting to count on me, maybe he could begin to see me, to talk to me, to get coffee with me instead of the polite dismissive 'later' he shot me whenever I asked.

I was hopeful, but I wasn't aware of what was happening to me. It might have started way earlier than I think without my noticing anything at all. You see someone, but you don’t really see him, he’s in the wings. Or you notice him, but nothing clicks, nothing “catches,” and before you’re even aware of a presence, or of something troubling you, the weeks that were offered you have begin to pass and you’re basically scrambling to come to terms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing for weeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you’re forced to call want. How couldn’t I have known? I know desire when I see it—and yet, this time, it slipped by completely. I was going for the devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time I said something that impressed him, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin. 

On the third week, I was sitting with two students in his office when he walked in. This happened often and he never interrupted. He went about his business as I went on explaining the Mohr–Coulomb theory, bent over a notebook where I had my notes.

Being the youngest at all my classes and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling as much information into the fewest possible words. I spoke fast, which gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my words.

When I was done, I became aware of the keenest glance coming from him. It thrilled and flattered me; he was interested—maybe he liked me. It hadn’t been as difficult as all that, then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile and vitrified that bordered on cruelty. It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days earlier when he found me arranging the papers on his desk and said being a TA was enough, he didn't need a housekeeper. He had his brother for that.

I decided to backtrack, to keep myself from hoping, Better stay away from him, keep things professional, I thought.To think that I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, his chest, —and his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like the miracle of the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring to find out why you couldn’t.

For three days our conversations came to a sudden halt. I did my work, and he continued working on his newest paper. We sat in silence, and more often than not, he wore his headphones to listen to classic rock while writing. It was impossible to start a conversation with him. But then, something amazing happened.

It was a Tuesday and I arrived much later than was usual for me. I hadn't overslept. I just didn't want to face another day of his polite indifference, as if he’d spotted my misplaced zeal to play up to him and was summarily pushing me away. It hurt even when I tried not to let it affect me. It stung me all the same.

His door was ajar, and I could hear him speaking to someone. I couldn't make out the words, but his tone was different, softer, happier, almost motherly. I knocked on the door and two faces turned to me in perfect synchronization. 

Dean was a tall man, towering over almost anyone that stood near him, but the other man was even taller, broader. He would have looked intimidating had it not been for the smile on his face. His eyes twinkled with something you can only see in the purest of creatures, like children or kittens. 

"Good morning. Sorry I'm late." I said. I barely stepped inside, worried I might be interrupting something. The man had his arm around Dean's shoulder with comfort that could only come with years of closeness and affection. 

And Dean.. Dean was like a different person. His eyes were filled with affection, his face was relaxed in a soft smile. He looked younger, like he had forgotten to put on his mask of cold indifference. My heart was racing for some reason. I wanted to leave, but I wished I could stay, hang around just to watch this other Dean, how he talked and walked and laughed.

"Hey Cas. Late night?" Dean asked.  
"Yes. Sorry." I willed my voice not to shake.  
"That's alright. I was hoping you could teach my morning class. I'm going out for a bit."  
"You don't have to ditch your students, Dean." The man chided.  
"Shut up. We're going to get coffee.. and pie."  
"Are you a student here?" Sam asked "Oh sorry. I'm Sam Winchester. I actually went here too. but I studied law.”

Winchester.. Oh. Winchester. Dean's little brother. I smiled, the pain in the back of my throat subsiding. I extended my hand. 

"Hello Mr. Wincherster.”  
“Sam, please”  
“Well, Nice to meet you Sam. I'm Castiel. I'm Dean's TA. I heard great things about you."  
"Did you?" Sam lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise, "like what?"

I was about to say 'Oh nothing, just that you are apparently a genius, a saint, and god's gift to humanity.' because that was the impression anyone got from Dean talking about his brother, but no sooner than I opened my mouth, Dean spoke again.  
"Alright." he said with finality. He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him away, grabbing his jacket on the way. 

"Thanks Cas. I owe you one." He added as they both went out the door.  
I stood there mesmerized. I felt like I found something I didn't even know I was looking for. 

I was so focused on peeking through the walls he had around himself, that I didn't stop to wonder what was behind them, and I just got a glimpse of it in full daylight, courtesy of Sam Winchester. 

The soft gaze, the earnest smile, the love in his eyes. So much love, it couldn't possibly fit in one man's heart, yet it did. His facade was terrifying, impenetrable. It even fooled me, but behind it was so much.. so much I wanted to discover and examine and relish. I wanted that sunny smile directed at me. I wanted him.. so much, so much I could actually die.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the following days, without explanation, things resumed. There was conversation again. He smiled, he complimented my work, and brought me coffee from the vending machine on the first floor.I was thrilled to see he still cared, was interested enough to ask me questions about my day and my plans. 

I was still treading carefully around him, like I was waiting for that wall to rise up between us again. He told me Sam was in town for a couple of days and already went back home. I was curious. It felt like a rare glimpse into something that was kept hidden away from me. He never talked about his life, except for when he mentioned 'Sammy.' 

"What does he do?" I asked carefully, keeping my eyes fixed on my laptop screen, as if I didn't care if he answered or not.

"He's a lawyer. He lives with his girlfriend in Palo Alto." Dean said with a soft smile, apparently only reserved for the people he cared about.

"Wow. An engineer and a lawyer. Your parents must be proud." I smiled to myself, thinking of my own parents, who always encouraged me to venture into life freely, unbounded by expectations and what propriety demanded. They expected me to travel the world with nothing but a backpack. I didn't. I studied hard, skipped years in school, took violin lessons, and announced I was to become an engineer. I must be the only person on earth to disappoint his parents by being a model student with overambitious plans. I always found that amusing.

He didn't answer. I glanced at him and his smile was gone. His face was an expressionless mask and his hands were already reaching for his headphones.There was something at once chilling and off-putting in the sudden distance that crept between us in the most unexpected moments. 

It was almost as though he were doing it on purpose; feeding me slack, and more slack, and then yanking away any semblance of fellowship.

The steely gaze always returned. One day, I was practicing my violin in the class. I liked how the music reverberated off the walls and high ceilings of the room. I had checked to see if there were other classes in session nearby, but there weren't. Assured I wouldn't disturb students, I began playing. I didn't expect anyone, least of all Dean, to come in. 

I lifted my head when I felt a presence, and he was just standing there. I recognized the gaze right away. He had been staring at me while I was focusing on playing, and when I raised my face to see if he liked what I was playing, there it was: cutting, cruel, like a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment its victim caught sight of it. He gave me a bland smile, as though to say, No point hiding it now.

He sat slowly on one of the chairs. He must have noticed I was shaken and in an effort to make it up to me began asking me questions. 

"I didn't know you played. Have you played for a while?""Since I was seven."I was too much on my guard to answer him with candor. 

Meanwhile, hearing me scramble for answers made him suspect that perhaps more was amiss than I was showing, so he stopped asking questions. 

“Play it again.” He said, simply.

"I thought you hated it," I shrugged

"Hated it? What gave you that idea?"

I shrugged. I felt elated and terrified at the same time. His closeness had that effect on me.

“Just play it, will you?” 

“The same one?” 

“The same one.”

I held my instrument close again, and started playing the song, but halfway through, my mind started conjuring different tunes, so I played them.

“You changed it. It’s not the same. What did you do to it?”

“Nothing. Just added my touch” I smiled, suddenly delighted I could tease him. I wanted to provoke an annoyed smile, a laugh, an offended look, anything.

“Just play it again, please!” He nudged me.I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started playing the piece again.

“I can’t believe you changed it again.” He commented after a while.

“Well, not by much. This is just a happier version.”

“Can’t you just play it the way it was written?”

“Okay, okay. No need to get so worked up,” I said. It was my turn to feign grudging acquiescence. 

I knew exactly what part of the song must have stirred him the first time, and each time I played it, I was sending it to him as a little gift, because it was really dedicated to him, as a token of something very beautiful in me that would take no genius to figure out and that urged me to throw in an extended cadenza. Just for him.

When I looked closer at him, he suddenly seemed different, tired, like he was barely holding his usual mask of indifference, already pierced by our banter. But something else there was crumpling. I was afraid to ask, afraid to look for too long. I wanted to touch him, only to see if his skin was burning with heat the way I imagine it to be.

Later when I thought about it, I wished I could tell him: I was exaggerating when I said I thought you hated the piece. What I meant to say was: I thought you hated me. 

I was hoping you’d persuade me of the opposite—and you did, for a while. Why won’t I believe it tomorrow morning?  
So this is who he also is, I said to myself after seeing how he’d flipped from ice to sunshine.I had been perfectly willing to brand him as difficult and unapproachable and have nothing more to do with him. 

Two words from him, and I had seen my pouting apathy change into 'I’ll play anything for you till you ask me to stop, till it’s time to leave, till the skin on my fingers wears off layer after layer, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed offers of friendship, I’ll never forget that this conversation occurred between us and that there are easy ways to bring back summer in the snowstorm.'

The next day, we sat at his table drinking cold coffee after his last class of the day. I was telling him about my parents disappointment in me not turning out to be a pot-smoking hippie. He was laughing and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he put his free arm around me and gently squeezed his thumb and forefingers into my shoulder in imitation of a friendly hug-massage.

The whole thing was very chummy-chummy, but I was so spellbound that I wrenched myself free from his touch, because a moment longer and I would have slackened like one of those tiny wooden toys whose gimp-legged body collapses as soon as the mainsprings are touched.   
Taken aback, he apologized and asked if he had pressed a “nerve or something”—he hadn’t meant to hurt me. He must have felt thoroughly mortified if he suspected he had either hurt me or touched me the wrong way. The last thing I wanted was to discourage him. Still, I blurted something like, “It didn’t hurt,” and would have dropped the matter there. 

But I sensed that if it wasn’t pain that had prompted such a reaction, what other explanation could account for my shrugging him off so brusquely? So I mimicked the face of someone trying very hard, but failing, to smother a grimace of pain.  
It never occurred to me that what had totally panicked me when he touched me was exactly what startles virgins on being touched for the first time by the person they desire: he stirs nerves in them they never knew existed and that produce far, far more disturbing pleasures than they are used to on their own.

He still seemed surprised by my reaction but gave every sign of believing me. It was his way of letting me off the hook and of pretending he wasn’t in the least bit aware of any nuance in my reaction.   
I began to wonder if he was already suspecting something.   
“Here, let me make it better.”   
Was he testing me? He proceeded to massage my shoulder.   
“Relax,” he said  
“But I am relaxing.”   
“You’re as stiff as this chair. It’s all knots.”   
Perhaps, in this, as with everything else, because I didn’t know how to speak in code, I didn’t know how to speak at all. I felt like a deaf and dumb person who can’t even use sign language. I stammered all manner of things so as not to speak my mind. That was the extent of my code. So long as I had breath to put words in my mouth, I could more or less carry it off. Otherwise, the silence between us would probably give me away—which was why anything, even the most spluttered nonsense, was preferable to silence. Silence would expose me. But what was certain to expose me even more was my struggle to overcome it in front of him.

What I hoped he hadn’t noticed in my overreaction to his grip was something else. Before shirking off his arm, I knew I had yielded to his hand and had almost leaned into it, as if to say: Don’t stop. Had he noticed I was ready not just to yield but to mold into his body?

I knew what this feeling was called, the “swoon.” Why had I swooned? And could it happen so easily—just let him touch me somewhere and I’d totally go limp and will-less? Was this what people meant by butter melting?

And why wouldn’t I show him how like butter I was? Because I was afraid of what might happen then? Or was I afraid he would have laughed at me, told everyone, or ignored the whole thing on the pretext I was too young to know what I was doing? Or was it because if he so much as suspected—and anyone who suspected, he might be tempted to act on it? Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing provided we both kept this little Ping-Pong game going: not knowing, Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t say “yes,” don’t say “no,” say “later.” Is this why people say “maybe” when they mean “yes,” but hope you’ll think it’s “no” when all they really mean is, Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that?

Could I deny it any longer? that I longed to touch his hands and wrists, that I loved how his eyes turned even a deeper shade of green when he was amused, that his hair seemed to be turning blonder every day, caught the sun before the sun was completely out in the morning; that I watched how his blue shirt hugged his torso so delicately, like someone had taken the time to construct it onto him piece by piece, the fabric promising to harbor a scent of skin and sweat that made me hard just thinking of it.  
I might have been able to deny it, had it not been for the events of the next week, when I had to face all of my feelings in his presence and under his gaze. When I could finally bask in his warmth, but was too close to the heat, so close, it burned.


End file.
